


if you think you can, reach out your hand.

by dominical



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Background Character Death, Character Death, Clone Jim Kirk, Clone Programming, Clone Wars, Consular Spock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Force-Sensitive Original Character(s), Grieving, M/M, Mass Death, Slow Burn, Star Wars Clones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dominical/pseuds/dominical
Summary: "What is your designation?"A heaving sigh. "JM-2233," he croaks. "Captain of the battalion." A harsh, scraping cough, and the face hovers over him, brows drown deep in concern. "NCC-1701. Sir."





	if you think you can, reach out your hand.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelthenerdfighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelthenerdfighter/gifts).



> i did the unspeakable and made a star wars au for star trek (my characterization is also a mishmash of tos and aos, so just. don't worry about it too much). most, if not all, of the original enterprise crew is dead, so please be aware that this fic isn't exactly happy (though the ending, while bittersweet, _is_ sweet). the commission was for a star wars/star trek au with spirk + a baby. i hope i delivered!
> 
> beta'd by my darling, [zhen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhen/pseuds/zhen)! thank you! <3

JM-2233 is alive, and he isn't sure how. He knows this because a hard, painful lump is digging into his lower back. He shifts to dislodge it, and sharp, lancing pain shoots up his legs. With a grunt, he remains still, opting to deal with the dull pain rather than provoking anything else. JM-2233 breathes in slow, measured breaths, and eventually the pain fades to an ache he can handle.

The last thing he remembers is an explosion of blue-white light and then... a scream, maybe, either his own or someone else's, a baby's desperate crying, and then nothing.

Cool hands prodded at his neck and temples, and JM-2233 grunts, trying to ignore the blooming discomfort in his head. What is that? Why can't he just rest—

"Wake up."

No, no, he's so tired, please, he needs to sleep, please—

"Wake up, captain. Your people need you."

At that, JM-2233 surges upwards, eyes blinking open. Cold, cold air rushes into his lungs and he gasps, fighting fighting fighting, his people were dying, he—

"Captain."

JM-2233 blinks once, twice. His eyes open for a fourth time and his vision swims. A purplish haze has descended on the world, swirling, swirling. A face moves into focus: pale green skin, tattoos, pursed lips... and gone. Was that the voice? Where are his people?

He tries to stand, but his legs won't move. He tries not to hyperventilate, blinking wildly. He tries again to stand, hands pressed against the cool earth below him, fingers curling into the grass. He doesn't move.

"Captain." Again, that damned voice, and JM-2233 blinks fiercely as the same face solidifies before him. JM-2233's breath rushes out of him, and suddenly he's on his back, again, the painful lump still kicking into his flesh. "Are you conscious?"

"Mm," JM-2233 grunts.

"What is your designation?"

A heaving sigh. "JM-2233," he croaks. "Captain of the battalion." A harsh, scraping cough, and the face hovers over him, brows drown deep in concern. "NCC-1701. Sir."

If JM-2233 was confused about his alive-or-dead status, that is all but erased at the pealing cry that emanates from somewhere beyond his vision. The face vanishes and JM-2233's vision continues to clear, pieces of his memory coming back as the world solidifies. Soon, he can see definition amongst the tropical jungle leaves that float in the gentle breeze. The wind carries the heavy stench of blood and blaster fire, but it is peacefully quiet.

Within minutes, the cry is silenced, and the face is back. A handsome face, a Mirialan: one of the Consulars, of mixed blood. Heady relief floods through JM-2233 and if he wasn't lying down he would be dizzy with it. He hadn't failed. Non-cloned life still lived.

Just one, one life, and it was worth it. The slaughter, the slaughter—

"What's your name?" JM-2233 coughs, and the Consular helps him sit upright against the tree behind him. A worn and chipped mug is pushed into his hands. The steaming liquid tastes of mint and honey.

The Consular's lips quirk into an ironic smile. "You could not pronounce my name." 

JM-2233 refrains from rolling his eyes. "What're you called, then?"

A pause. "Spock," the Consular says, his eyes dark, but warm. "I am called Spock."

"Nice to meet you, Spock," JM-2233 sucks down the rest of the warm drink, feeling much more like a man and less like a casualty of war. Spock refills the mug without being asked. "JM-2233.”

Spock repeats the name, as if testing it, his lip curling in a gesture that JM-2233 would have called disgust if it had been on anyone else. That couldn't be. The Jedi, and especially the Consulars and especially the Mirialan, didn't have time for the useless emotions the rest of the galaxy was troubled with.

There's something in his face that has JM-2233 keep talking, even as his throat complains. "My squadron calls — called me Jim. For the letters on my designation."

"Do you prefer this?"

He tries to shrug, and his shoulder screams. Wincing, Jim settles for a nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Jim, then." Spock nods, and the matter is settled. "Are you finished your tea?" Jim doesn't remember finishing it, but he had, and Spock whisks the mug away.

"Where are we?" he asks, if only to keep himself awake.

"Five hundred meters south of the location of the slaughter. I would have continued onwards to the river that flows south to the west of here, however—" Spock arches an eyebrow, somehow indicating all of Jim in the one motion. "—I may be several times stronger than a human, but I have sustained minor injuries."

"You could have left me. You should have."

The answer is fast and firm. "No."

"Most men would have." Jim is, after all, a clone. A unique clone-type, but there would be others. That was the whole point of clones.

"It would have been... ill-advised," Spock says, moving to stand and add more moss-heavy logs to the fire. It flickers. A rush of heat blooms over Jim's chest, and Jim lets out a sigh. "I am unfamiliar with this landscape, and while I have the necessary education to hypothesize directions and the means to acquire sustenance, I am also bound with a charge."

Sleep tugs at Jim's eyelids and he struggles to keep them open. "A charge?"

"A child," Spock's voice is impossibly quiet. "An infant."

Jim had something he wants to say to that, but he falls into a dreamless sleep.

~

The next time he wakes, it's from a nightmare, and Spock is at his side, dark eyes unreadable.

"Spock," Jim heaves, and Spock braces his hands against Jim's shoulders. "Spock."

"Captain," he says, measured.

"Are any — did any of them, my people, did any make it?"

Spock hesitates for all of half a breath and withdraws his touch. "Unknown. I did not find anyone alive besides you, Captain."

Jim nods, and does not manage to go back to sleep that night.

~

As Jim attempts sleep, Spock's shoulders curl inwards, and he rises with his hands in loose fists at his sides. The clone — a human, a man — cared for his squadron with an intensity that Spock had never before seen. It was odd. He can see that Jim doesn't manage to sleep; he only lies on his back with his hands in fists on his abdomen, staring at the flickering stars. It had been the Captain's men that opened fire. The Jedi and padawans and children had been at their mercy until they understood what was going on, but it had been too late. They had been cut down, falling, folding in on themselves like wet paper.

Spock watches him, and tucks the child onto his back and into her sling. 

He disappears into the forest, pupils expanding far past the capabilities of any full-blooded human, and he begins his search.

~

He recovers slowly. They don't have the standard medical technology: no dermal regenerators, field cauterizers, pocket healing field generators, or anything else Jim might have had LM-2227 carry in his pack. Jim heals the old-fashioned way, with a lot of tea and a lot of grumbling, which Spock ignores in his cool-headed way.

Thinking about LM-2227, about Bones — as the squadron had taken to calling him — was a lot like poking the healing wounds on his leg, so Jim avoids it, skirting around the bruise.

~

His days pass like this: he wakes up with the dawn breaking through the leaves, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. Spock is always awake, and Jim wants to ask if he ever sleeps or maybe how he's healing, but he never gets the words out before a mug of the same mint-honey tea is pushed into his hands, and he has to drink or risk the disapproval of the Consular.

Jim drinks, and when he is finished he watches Spock.

Spock, after checking Jim's wounds and changing his bandages, meditates for what Jim estimates is an hour. Jim fades in and out of consciousness, but as the time passes he finds sleep less willing to grab hold of him, and more often than not he stays awake to avoid the sounds of blaster fire that haunt him. Soon, they will have to talk about it, but Jim is content to avoid discussing the incident for a little while longer.

Spock meditates, Jim watches him, and when Spock rouses himself, he checks on the infant — Jim can't see anything beyond tiny green fists that occasionally grab for Spock's robes, along with a babble of sound — and feeds them. Jim doesn't know where he finds food, but Spock will tuck the child into a sling, and the child curls into Spock's back and sleeps. Spock will set a mug of tea by Jim, and then vanish for several hours.

When he returns, the shadows in Spock's eyes are more pronounced, but the bag he brings into the jungle is full of unfamiliar fruits and leaves, and so they don't starve.

They don't talk, not really. 

~

Jim grows stronger, and within three days he is standing, and on the fourth he is walking around their camp and going for short excursions into the jungle. He constructs a mental map of their location, documenting the direction and flow of the river Spock had mentioned on the first day. The squadron's orders had been to escort the collection of Jedi and padawans to the planet's northern temple for education. Once the padawans had been assigned to Masters, the squadron would be reassigned.

If any of his squadron had survived the slaughter, they likely would have made their way to the temple.

 _To either finish the job or seek refuge,_ Jim thinks, hands on his hips. The river burbles over iridescent rocks, and the flashing tails of fish vanish in the white-foam tips of the river. His leg aches, but he's grown restless. 

Spock had told him that he hadn't found any of the clones, and Jim believed him. The Mirialan was almost abrasively honest.

Jim sighs.

He needs to know why. Why did his squadron turn on him? Who ordered them to? Was it an order from someone higher than Pike, or did they decide together to do so? For what purpose? What could they possibly have to gain from slaughtering Jedi? Consulars? _Children?_

The temple would either have answers or nothing at all, and Jim can't decide which is worse.

~

"Can I trust my own mind?" Jim asks when he's back at camp, propped up against his tree. "Something _happened_ to them. I know it. They wouldn't — they wouldn't."

Spock blinks at him, the infant cradled in his arms. He purses his lips and seriously considers the question. His eyes are dark. They suck in the light around him.

Jim wants to say something like _'just say yes so I can move on from this,'_ but Spock can't so easily move on from a murdered almost-family and Jim can't move on from an almost-family of murderers.

"It is likely," Spock says, slowly, "that whatever it was that caused your comrades to attack did not affect you. I find it doubtful that you have anything to worry about."

Though he's obviously hesitant, Jim finds the words comforting in a way he can't explain.

~

It does turn out to be worse when, on the fifth day, Jim stumbles across the scene of the slaughter in his wandering. He can see the scene reconstructed in his mind as he seems to float across the trampled grass. Already, nature is reclaiming the destruction, growing around the blasted holes and bloody bodies which lay on the ground. It's interesting, Jim notes distantly, and he should really be worried about that particular coping mechanism, but it is interesting that the bodies aren't thrown haphazard across the clearing.

They are lined up, in a row, hands clasped over their chest as if ready for burial. Their bodies haven't decayed at all — they don't even smell, and he highly doubts that they've ever reached rigor mortis. Jim's nose wrinkles. He pushes past the rising nausea and steps closer, stomach twisting.

He recognizes them. 

Each and every single one.

He doesn't call for Spock; it's obvious this is Spock's work, so Spock knows they're here. Spock had told him he hadn't found anyone else alive. Just Jim. Alone, unconscious in a field of bloodshed. There are some of Spock's people, carefully arranged just as Jim's are. Their robes are a dark, ugly red. There are burn marks contorting their skin.

Jim inhales. Exhales.

"I was waiting for you to recover fully before suggesting burial," Spock says, and Jim doesn't jump. He finds he was expecting it. Expecting Spock. Expecting the scrutiny. Jim nods, dull. He doesn't ask how Spock preserved the bodies. He doesn't care to know. He has no idea how the Force works or if it was even the Force or if it was some other thing that Spock mysteriously knows or—

"Thanks," Jim says.

Spock is silent, but he's moving, and between one second and the next there is a makeshift shovel in Jim's hand. He stares at it, at the hardwood carved into a spade. At the bamboo-like stalk handle. He wants to ask where Spock learned the skills necessary to survive in the wilds, where he learned to make tools with nothing but his hands. 

He doesn't. He only grips the shovel until his knuckles turn white and he digs. Digs and digs and digs. Spock directs him, but Jim doesn't register the noise, only obeys the instructions and digs. And digs. And digs. And digs.

CM-2285 is buried first. Her blonde curls are matted with blood. Jim wants to wash her, but there's nothing to wash her with. They barely have enough water to keep themselves hydrated. Her face is soft in death, without any of her passion. He ignores the sound the dirt makes as it falls and lets the rhythmic motions of pushing dirt soothe him. CM-2285; Carol to the battalion. She'd chosen it herself.

They bury JR-2266 next to Carol. Rand's hair had been burned short, below her ears. _She'd hate it,_ Jim thinks, muscles burning but he can't, can’t, can't stop. Her hands are limp on her abdomen, her uniform ripped and stained. It's unreal. It's — it should be illegal, that Rand be seen in anything other than her pristine perfection, Jim thinks, but the thought is distant. Smoke on the horizon. A fleeting insect, impossible to catch.

They have to take a break after Rand. Jim's leg and shoulder complain, and he feels more human than he has in a while. He stares at the remaining bodies, at the Jedi and children and the not-clones waiting to be buried. The battalion had been an experiment. Different types of clones for different types of jobs. The NCC-1701 was not a collection of soldiers, but a collection of scientists and engineers and navigators. Carol had been a molecular biologist. Rand called herself a personal assistant, but the truth of the matter was that she did a little bit of everything. Like a glue that kept the battalion together and functioning.

Jim heaves a sigh. Spock offers him clear liquid; Jim downs it and doesn't taste it before he realizes it was water.

"Where'd you learn to do this?" Jim asks, because the silence of the forest and the bodies was getting to him. They're reclined against a moss-covered trunk, cradled in roots that had been exposed by rain and shifting dirt.

"Captain?"

Jim gestures towards the shovels. "Where'd you learn to survive like this?"

Silence greets the question. Jim glances at Spock to repeat his question, but he sees the thoughtful look on Spock's face and, for once in his life he doesn't speak. Bones would be impressed, Jim thinks, and he swallows around a lump in his throat at the thought.

"There is a tradition amongst the Mirialan people, when one comes of age. It is called the _kahs-wan."_ He glances at Jim, and Jim shakes his head. He doesn't know a damn thing about the Mirialans. "I chose to undertake it at seven years of age. This was... unwise, but I was saved from certain death by a cousin, who happened upon me." 

Jim's pretty sure Spock hasn't talked this much in one sitting since he met him.

Spock indicates the shovels with a wave of his hand, "I learned many things during the _kahs-wan._ Some skills are more useful than others."

Jim's brimming with questions but he figures Spock's done being open and he shuts up, and they call it a day, and return to camp.

~

Jim wakes on the sixth day sore and aching and in more pain than when he first woke up days ago, but he stands anyway and drinks the damned tea Spock pushes at him. He chokes down a breakfast of plants and whatever the hell else it is that Spock pieces together, and the two — plus the child, which Spock has strapped firmly to his back — go back to the scene of the slaughter. Jim's whole body aches.

There's no time for complaining.

They bury PC-2245 and HS-2293 beside each other, near enough that they could hold hands. Chekov — the name given to him by HS-2293, who went by Sulu with an easy grin — and Sulu had always been close. Being a navigator and a pilot tended to do that. Jim tries to ignore the too-young face of Chekov as dirt sinks into his pores.

Then they bury CC-2270 (Chapel, young and bright and fierce), MS-2222 (Scotty, steady-handed and with a wicked humour), LK-2270 (Kyle, loyal and always laughing), and LL-2268 (Leslie, who never smiled but cared more than the rest of them). They push until all of the NCC-1701 bodies are below the earth. Jim's sweaty and sore and his blisters have blisters, but — it's done. His people are resting. His stomach slowly unwinds and Jim can breathe again. CC-2270's death — Chapel, like a church, a second-hand to Bones that Jim knows Bones relied on more than he liked to say — isn't encouraging for the survival of Bones. 

Really, the sheer amount of bodies isn't encouraging at all. And yet—

—there's no sign of Bones, nor of NU-2265. If anyone survived, it'd be Uhura. Jim sighs, breath rattling around in his lungs.

"We should bury your people," Jim says, but he takes another step and falls flat on his face.

~

When he wakes, he's back at camp, propped up against the same damn tree. He groans. Spock looks up from across the camp with an arched brow, which Jim has figured by now is pretty signature for him. It's probably the same day, since the sun has only dipped closer towards the horizon, but the days on this planet are long.

"You collapsed," Spock says.

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," Jim says. "Could I get a new tree?"

"A new tree."

"Yes."

Spock's expression morphs into something like exasperation. "Why do — what is wrong with the one you are using?"

"It's the same tree and I'd like a change of scenery."

Spock's mouth twitches like he has something to say but he doesn't say anything at all, only moving closer and propping Jim's arm over his shoulder. Together they maneuver Jim to a different tree, and he finds himself closer to the child than he had ever been before.

The child blinks in their swaddled mass of blanket.

"Oh, hello there," Jim says. It is the first time he's actually made eye contact with the infant, and warmth spreads in his chest. The child babbles, sounding very human for a Mirialan. He glances up at Spock, grinning. He offers his forefinger and the child latches onto it, continuing to babble, though now they can't seem to decide if they want to bite his finger or squeeze it until it turns blue.

Spock is watching them, shoulders taut with tension.

"Relax," Jim tilts his head towards the child, who is in the middle of what's clearly a very engaging conversation with his finger. "They're okay."

Spock exhales through his nose.

"Do they have a name?" Best to redirect Spock's tension, because Jim has no idea how to say that he'd rather die than endanger a child. It's unlikely that'd Spock believe him, what with the — corpses.

"T'luta Aviyah Lilos Efrayim," Spock says. "She was to be given to the temple to be raised and trained as an acolyte."

"Pretty name," Jim coos, directing his attention the child, who is fully intent on devouring his finger with sharp needle-teeth. Jim's had worse, but it still hurts like hell, so he tries to extricate his finger with minimal losses. "Not very traditionally Mirialan, though, I must say."

"A good observation, Captain," Spock says, and if Jim didn't know better he'd swear that was sarcasm. "T'luta's parents are of a mixed household. They wished to honour the various cultures that influenced them within her name."

"Like you," Jim says. Spock's smile is faint. He gives Jim a look that Jim can't read. Both of them turn their attention to T'luta.

"Yes," Spock replies. "Like me."

~

Later that day, nearing proper evening, Jim figures he's dawdled enough, and Spock doesn't try to stop him from standing and grabbing his shovel, but he does give him a _disapproving look_ that Jim ignores. His body may collapse again, but it doesn't matter.

He has to do this. He has to, or he won't ever forgive himself.

Spock's people are dead and it may not be Jim's _fault,_ but Jim couldn't save them. He tried, but it wasn't enough, and people died anyway. Innocent people died for a reason Jim can't understand but he needs to try to make it right.

There are significantly more Jedi bodies than there are clone. They bury half. Spock carefully places several of them next to each other in the same hole, or even on top of each other. Jim doesn't question it. He knows about a wide variety of cultures and burial practices and ways to deal with the dead, but the Jedi were always a mystery to him.

Jim just digs where Spock tells him to and puts dirt in the holes.

When they go back to camp, the planet's moons have risen high into the sky and Jim knows he's worked himself too hard and too fast for his body to keep up. Spock knows it, too, but he doesn't say anything. He only helps Jim settle down against his tree, gently setting a mug of the mint-honey tea into his hands.

Spock sits on the other side of the child, facing the campfire, which is nothing but low, red coals.

Jim wonders how they look to someone who doesn't know them. A clone in battle-damaged armor, a child swaddled in cloth, and a tired Mirialan Consular. They must make quite the picture.

It's Spock who breaks the silence. "You pushed yourself beyond what is wise today, Captain."

Jim's muscles scream with every lift of the mug to his lips.

"I had to," Jim says. "It was… unacceptable to let them lay there."

"It was unwise," Spock insists, something unfamiliar and unclear in his voice. He looks at Jim with narrowed eyes and something like desperation on his face, but that couldn't be right. This is Spock, not some unfettered youth with no control over his emotions. "You should have rested instead of continuing to work. I am fully capable of burying our dead. You endangered your recovery — for what purpose?"

Ah.

"It was the right thing to do, Spock. I was responsible for them — don't look at me like that, I _was_. It was right to put them to rest. I'll recover one way or another, or I won't, but I won't stand by and let them lie there with only you to care for them. That's not _right,_ damn it!" Jim hadn't meant to get so worked up about it, but by the end he's breathing hard and his leg is screaming at him. His lower back complains, so he shifts, but the tension isn't relieved.

Silence follows.

Spock looks at him, unreadable.

"You endangered yourself because it was right," Spock says.

Jim nods.

Spock nods, once. "I have misjudged your character."

"Yeah, well." Jim isn't sure what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

~

They bury the rest in silence the seventh day. They finish by late afternoon, and Jim forces himself to stretch to keep his muscles from cramping. Spock is relaxed in a way Jim hasn't seen in him before. 

Dinner consists of more unfamiliar plants, though Jim notices there are extras of that one bean-like plant he's taken a liking to. The afternoon passes into the evening with light conversation: Spock learns about Jim's training, his battalion, and Jim learns about Spock's training as a Consular and what it means to him, which is a lot, since he had disobeyed his father's direct wishes when he went with his Master. Spock tells him about the cold planet of Mirial and Jim tells him, in vague terms since it wasn't really something one could explain, what it was like to grow up with people who shared your face. They watch the sun bruise the sky with purples and blues as it dips into the horizon.

It's comfortable.

Jim sleeps easy for the first time in seven days.

He doesn't see Spock look at him with an expression Jim wouldn't be able to define.

~

It is the eighth day of their rest that they first found signs of Jim's squadron. Jim has no idea why it took that long for them to find anything, but he supposes it makes sense, especially if the survivors had tried to cover their tracks. If the hiding had been done by the squadron, that is, and not an unknown third party.

That morning, Jim had woken to Spock shaking his shoulder, gently, which was new. Spock had given him the mint-honey tea — which didn't taste as good as it had the first time Jim had swallowed it down, but he obliges with only a grimace — and that wasn't new at all. He blinks, blearily.

"Wh—?"

Spock only stares down at him, expressionless. Jim can't get a read on him on good days, and he isn't sure this counts as a good day.

"We have to go," Spock says. It was then that Jim notices the wrapped fabric around his torso and the equally bleary T'luta blinking at him from over Spock's shoulder. He hasn't had a good look at her since the first time; Spock tends to keep her close by and out of sight or wrapped up. The kid yawns, revealing tiny pearl-white teeth and pointed incisors. She looks exhausted.

 _Me too, kid,_ Jim thinks, uncurling his spine and stretching until the muscles complained. Spock steps back, waiting. Staring.

"I have located anomalies that I believe you would be interested in." Spock shifts a pack on his shoulder, and Jim realizes with a jolt that the entire camp had been packed up.

It is time to move on.

Jim nods, hesitant, pushing himself to his feet with only minor complaints from his muscles. His leg still aches, but that probably won't go away for a long while yet. He _had_ pushed himself to heal, so in the end, whose fault was it really?

"Lead on, O Wise Leader." Jim gestures for Spock to lead the way through the brush and earns an unimpressed glance for his efforts. Spock _does_ turn on his heel and vanish through the leaves, though, so Jim counts it as a win.

He didn't have a lot of those.

The forest — the jungle, really, they're in a jungle — is humid in that gross sticky-skin way, where no breath is fresh and the air weighs you down. Mosquito-like bugs keep landing on Jim's neck and jaw, and while they don't seem intent on doing any harm, it _is_ annoying as hell, and Jim tires pretty fucking quick of slapping his skin for some relief. Spock appears either entirely unmolested by tiny bugs or like he doesn't care even if he is. Jim isn't sure which one he'd prefer.

~

"Hey, Spock."

Spock stops. Turns. Jim stands in the middle of their beaten pathway, worn down by animals they haven't seen, and Jim jerks his chin deep into the brush. T'luta grumbles and mumbles to herself, and Spock resists from reaching back to pet her curly dark hair, downy soft.

He follows Jim's gaze, breath catching. 

A small red ribbon, tied in a bow. It hangs limp in the damp air. This is not the anomaly he had planned to show Jim.

"Now, I don't know about you, but that doesn't seem native to me," Jim says, already pushing through the brush to run his fingers along it. "But you clearly didn't know it was here, so it wasn't one of the 'anomalies' you need me to see. So." He seems to be angling for a conclusion, wanting Spock to make one of his own, but Spock doesn't know the NCC-1701 like Jim does. He doesn't know who has red ribbons or who would think to tie them to a branch next to a beaten path and he doesn't know who survived.

Spock arches a brow. "It is highly likely that it belongs to a humanoid native to your planet, Captain, as we have seen no other instances of ribbon material."

"Wanna guess who left it?"

If possible, Spock's brow rose even more. "I do not 'make guesses.' I do not have enough data to make anything near a reasonable estimate." He wonders, for a brief second, if this is Jim admitting that he knows Spock paid only cursory attention to the clones that escorted him and his people.

That was Spock's mistake. He knows that. He wonders if Jim knows that and dismisses the speculation.

Jim is many things, but the one thing he is not is duplicitous or overtly manipulative. That much, Spock has noticed.

Jim's mouth quirks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn't, only pats the ribbon and lets it be. Spock watches the motion impassively. "Miss Uhura is fond of ribbons for various reasons. Says it brings civilization to the shit wilds." A pause. "Uhura was — _is_ my communications officer."

Spock is silent. He restrains from raising his eyebrow, because Jim can read him too well already and he doesn't think about that at all.

"So either Uhura has survived and is leaving us a trail of breadcrumbs to her new location, or someone else survived and is using her ribbons, or a third party is leading us around for fun or... underhanded reasons."

Spock nods, once. "Reasonable conclusions, Captain." He ignores the swoop in the pit of his stomach. That is not fear.

He has no reason to be afraid. He does not know the meaning of the emotion.

At that, Jim does laugh, sharp and fast and it's swallowed up just as quick as he releases it. Spock doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "I knew you'd approve. C'mon, O Wise One. We got anomalies to investigate."

~

They do, eventually, find the 'anomaly.'

Spock stops abruptly and Jim runs into his back with an _oof,_ already peering around to see what has Spock so still — and stops, eyes wide. A torn patch of uniform. Buried in the bushes. Jim feels sick, but this is what he wanted, isn't it? To find proof of life, one way or another, be it an enemy or his people.

Spock steps to the side, gesturing for Jim to investigate, and Jim picks his way through the purple-blue brush until he can duck down and take a closer look.

It's Bones' uniform. He'd bet his life on it. He's familiar enough with the fabric of it, having been delirious and under Bones' steady hands often enough that he _knows—_

"It's Bones'," Jim says, remembering that despite the infuriatingly attractive looks Spock gives him with that damn eyebrow, Spock can't actually read minds. 

Probably.

Spock inclines his head as if he knows who that is.

"LM-2227. Our doctor." Jim glances back at Spock, who's staring at the fabric with a stern too-controlled expression. Jim sighs. "Out with it."

"Probability suggests it unlikely that your doctor survived the — attack," Spock says, without an ounce of emotion in his voice. "Seeing as there is no evidence of native life forms beyond the animals that wander this jungle, the existence of this piece of evidence is either condemning or a confirmation of his death."

The fabric piece itself is a carefully cut square.

"Well, someone left Uhura's ribbon. That was very purposeful," Jim says, careful. "Someone with thumbs had to do that."

"Or a Force-using individual," Spock points out. Jim didn't say anything. He didn't think it mattered, since he was pretty sure all of the Jedi that they had been escorting had had thumbs.

Not to mention that the last they had seen them, they had all been dead.

~

The almost-argument about who left the ribbon and the patch of uniform turns out to be a moot point. There's more — two more ribbons, and another smaller patch of Bones' uniform — leading north, towards the temple. So either _someone_ (that amorphous third party that lurked in the back of Jim's mind, some vague nameless threat) had gotten ahold of both Uhura's ribbons and Bones' uniform and was leading them on a wild goose chase to isolate them from their camp for some reason.

Or Bones and Uhura were both alive and had reason to think that Jim was alive, too.

A million scenarios play out in his head in painstaking clarity as they walk: Bones dead, Uhura alive, desperate to communicate with anyone outside of this damned jungle planet. Uhura dead and Bones alive, doing his best to tend to whatever injured were lingering at the temple. Both of them alive, trying to make contact with anyone. Anyone at all.

The people of the temple featured heavily in these scenarios.

Jim grinds his molars and barely avoids tripping over a gnarled root. He grunts. Spock glances back at him, inquiry clear on his face. Jim flaps a hand and Spock turns to continue picking his way through the awful, awful jungle.

What the hell would Jim even say to them? Hey, sorry our comrades lost their damned minds and killed the people we were supposed to be protecting and got killed for their efforts?

He tries to imagine Bones' face to such a declaration. Jim figures he'd do that thing where his brows furrow and his mouth twists, like Bones can't tell how he wants to react, because that is a _lot,_ but once he figures it out he'll probably be yelling and it'll most definitely be Jim's fault. He's very familiar with that particular expression.

Jim almost wishes Spock would say something, anything, so Jim could snark at him, and the time spent traveling would ease into a comfortable back-and-forth.

They don't snark. Instead, Jim learns about Spock's father, and his mother. He learns about the education he went through and how — _different_ it was. Jim's original guess about Spock's ancestry had been correct. Spock isn't a full Mirialan, and he isn't a full human, instead having been born to a Mirialan father and a human mother. The pregnancy and birth hadn't been easy on anyone, and though Spock didn't say that explicitly, Jim can read between the lines.

In return, Jim tells stories about the battalion. About the claims of _'my clone-type invented that, you know'_ that Chekov makes — _made_ — every single time they discover anything of value. About the plants Sulu collects — _collected_ — and stowed away in his cabin and the one time a large man-eating plant that he had rehomed tried to eat Rand and nearly succeeded. About the time Bones solved a plague for a life form that had no heartbeat and saved a species. About the sort of clone-brother who had chosen the name Sam that Jim had found before it was too late to save him.

It's therapeutic. Digging up the old memories, turning them over in his hands. Offering them to Spock, who listens, accepting them. Offering old memories of his own. It's comfortable in a way he can't describe.

Spock _listens._ T'luta babbles, and they stop every couple of hours to feed her, to change her wrappings. Jim rocks her as Spock prepares the food, and he coos and prods her upturned nose with his finger. It's a fifty-fifty bet if she giggles or screams, which is pretty good odds.

Throughout their journey, Jim can't help but notice the way Spock's face twists into concern and confusion when his gaze falls on him, or how he looks away before Jim can make eye contact. He doesn't know what to make of it, so he doesn't say anything at all.

~

Jim, of course, watches Spock. He also looks away when Spock catches him at it, and feels much like he's playing a very dangerous game. Jedi aren't allowed attachments; he's been around enough Jedi to know that. There are, of course, those that break that tenet, and are swiftly expelled. He can't imagine Spock would be willing to break such a rule for a clone whose battalion murdered his people.

Besides, clones aren't supposed to form attachments at all. It isn't in their programming. They aren't supposed to be capable of it. ( Though, then, Jim has to look at his battalion and the _family_ they built, and wonder. )

He isn't sure how to justify it to himself: the way he pokes and prods for Spock's attention, or the way electricity dances on his skin whenever Spock's lips twist into a wry smile. It must be something in the atmosphere on this planet.

It must be. He doesn't know what he would do if it isn't.

~

They reach the temple on the evening of the tenth day after camping and traveling for another two days. It had felt like many, many days since they started their journey, following the trail of 'anomalies'.

When they break through the cover and into the open clearing, Jim nearly weeps. If he ever has to sleep under another damn tree ever again it'll be too soon. His relief is short-lived: the temple is... it's...

It's not good.

Jim knows what the temple grounds are supposed to look like. The temple consists of three round structures, joined together in whatever architectural style that is supposed to be. Their roofs are low and round, like large discs. The only windows that exist are on the middle, larger circular structure. Heavy fabric in reds and golds hang from the roof discs, displaying the symbol of the temple and the Order within. The grounds themselves are supposed to hold gardens and rivers and a landing pad and...

"No," Spock whispers, and Jim thinks he hallucinated it, but a look at Spock's face tells him everything he wishes that he didn't know.

Spock's mouth is downturned, lips parted, eyes wide and too vulnerable. His breath comes in short gasps, and Jim watches the physical wrestling of his emotions, the settling of something within into the tired puzzle that was Spock, the Mirialan Jedi Consular.

Jim wants to erase the memory. Spock hadn't wanted Jim to see him like that; it's one of the few things Jim can say he's still certain of.

The temple grounds are scorched. What would have been an array of gardens containing food and flowers is only burnt earth. It reeks like blood and death and fire. Smoke. It's a disgusting combination, and Jim only spares half a thought to wonder why they couldn't smell it before then. What kind of damned jungle is that?

There are no bodies.

"There aren't any bodies," Jim says the observation aloud, but he's pretty sure Spock doesn't hear him because he's already tearing down the hill, long legs eating up distance. Jim curses under his breath and slides down the grass after him. T'luta bounces on Spock's back and doesn't make a sound.

As they near the temple and climb the steps, nausea climbs up the back of Jim's throat. Blood stains the outer walls. The temple is utterly, utterly silent.

There's so much blood. Some of it is on the ground, scraped towards the arched temple door atop another set of stairs. Jim clenches and relaxes his fists. Spock is barely breathing. The Consular turns to Jim, eyes too wide, and Jim opens his mouth to say something, anything, to give them the courage to enter the damned temple.

"Who goes there?"

Jim chokes. Spock, standing next to him, turns. Slowly. Hands flexed.

"I _said,_ who — what the hell, _Captain?"_

Nyota Uhura, head communications officer for the NCC-1701, stands at the top of the temple steps, blaster aimed square at Spock's head. She blinks at Jim but her blaster doesn't waiver.

"Uhura?" Jim says, too quiet. It can't be—

"I knew you were too stubborn to die," her lips quirk into a smile, and Jim wants to cry, she's _alive,_ but he moves past Spock and runs up the stairs without a plan of what he's gonna do when he gets there. Uhura makes the decision for him and sheathes her blaster as he clears the final steps and sweeps him into a hug.

She may be smaller than him, but she chokes the breath out of him with the force of her grip.

"Captain," she says, face pressed into his chest, "oh, Captain. I'm so — I'm so sorry." Uhura pulls back to peer up at him, eyes wet, and Jim stomps down on any inclination he has to cry. He can't. Not when Uhura is so obviously on edge.

"We'll figure it out," Jim says. It's really all he can offer. Uhura nods, inhaling shakily and finally releasing him. Spock still stands at the base of the stairs, an unreadable expression on his face.

It's unnerving. Jim's gotten pretty used to being able to read Spock. The fact that he _can't_ is concerning.

"Spock," Jim calls, gesturing for Spock to join them. "It's okay. C'mon."

"Doctor McCoy," Uhura says, latching onto Jim's bicep. Jim blinks.

His heart stops. "Bones?"

"Come with me. Now."

~

Jim's proud of his people. They were a highly trained experimental squadron of clones with more-or-less unique clone-types, and whatever assignments they had been given had been done well and on time. Sometimes he bent the rules, but never too much so as to need reeducation or anything so severe. Pride swells in his chest when Uhura pushes through the massive temple doors and reveals the foyer.

Uhura had set up a primitive communications array, using what was left of the temple's own. With screens glowing in bright blues and greens, the main foyer of the temple is a halo of light. In the center stood a long table with surgical implements and datapads and tablets and other devices Jim can't recognize. There's a distinct separation between the illuminated center of the workspace and the rest of the dark, abandoned temple. It looks a little like a base of operations, but a lot more like an infirmary. Uhura had done her best to explain what had happened on their end, and she had several theories as to why everything had fallen apart so swiftly and so brutally. There had apparently been a station of clones appointed to guard the temple for no reason anyone could remember, according to the files that remained. 

Jim makes her promise to explain, later, because he pushes through the side door that Uhura indicates is the study slash sleeping area, and stops dead.

Bones is just — he is just—

Bones had set up an infirmary. 

"Bones," Jim says, and something settles in his chest. Bones turns, eyes wide, and before he can say anything Jim's right there, arms around him, crushing Bones to him—

He can breathe again. Uhura and Bones, alive alive _alive._

"I thought you were dead," he mutters, and Bones swallows audibly.

"Yeah, well," Bones grinds out. "Didn't take to it."

They stand there for a small, private eternity. Bones is steady and real and alive, and Jim can breathe again. It's so odd: when it was just him or even when it was just him and Uhura, it was like holding his breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he was just surviving until the universe got tired of toying with him and killed him for good.

He might be able to start living again.

~

Introducing Spock and Bones goes well for approximately ten seconds, which is better than Jim had expected. It isn't a true introduction, not really, since they had known each other in a distant way before the incident, but with the deaths looming over their heads... it's different. Everyone can feel it.

Jim raises his hands, one in either direction, but that didn't make Bones relax. Not that he had expected it to, he just sort of has a hope that the universal gesture for _relax, gun down_ would make Bones drop his hand from the grip of his blaster.

Spock, for his part, is as tense as Jim has ever seen him.

"You trust this — man?" Spock directs his question to Jim without breaking eye contact with Bones, who only bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile.

"With my life," Jim says, hoping against hope that Spock would _look_ at him and see how serious he was. Hoping against hope that Bones wouldn't draw his blaster. "He has saved my life more times than I can count."

"He slaughtered my people," Spock says, voice flat. "They died, screaming. Begging."

"I didn't touch your damned people," Bones snarls, and oh, there he goes, blue eyes flashing indignantly. "I tried to save them and nearly _died_ for my efforts! _My people_ died!"

"Easy, Bones," Jim says, but neither Bones nor Spock seem to hear him. Spock continues, taking a step into Bones' space, and Bones doesn't back down. If anything, he seems to get larger, angrier, chest expanding as Spock speaks.

"If it were not for the clones slaughtering the defenseless, I imagine your people would yet live."

Jim barely resists from slapping his palm against his forehead.

"Defenseless? Hardly, you—"

Jim slams his palms down on the table and the medical instruments scatter and clatter to the ground. T'luta makes a startled cry; Spock and Bones jump, whirling on Jim simultaneously. Their expressions are nearly identical, and in any other situation Jim would laugh, but this time he only grimaces.

"This isn't the time! You're both adults, it's time to damn well _act like it!"_

Bones' brow twitches. Jim turns his glare on him, daring him to challenge him, to mention the last time Jim insisted that they act like adults ( it had ended rather spectacularly, with the entire squadron drunk off their asses on illegal liquor ) but Bones remains silent. He crosses his arms over his chest, jerking his chin towards Jim, and Jim heaves a sigh. Spock says nothing, but Jim can read him this time — there's tension in his shoulders, and Spock's fingers twitch. He wants to hit something, maybe. He wants to fiddle with scientific instruments until something makes sense, maybe. He wants to jab a finger to Bones' chest and make him answer for all of the lives he couldn't save, maybe.

Jim shakes his head. He can only guess.

"Everyone has lost people," Jim says, voice quieter. "We can't afford to accuse and assign blame; we don't have the time or the resources, and, frankly, I'm tired of it." He pauses, throat working. "Uhura has something like an answer for why this tragedy happened — and it is a tragedy, for _everyone_ here. That _has_ to be enough." The unspoken _for now_ hangs in the air, but Jim doesn't give it a voice. That _for now_ has to be distant and far away.

Spock gives him an even look.

Bones' mouth twitches.

"Okay, Jim," Bones says. "I hear you." He doesn't look at Spock as he gathers his medical tools that Jim had scattered with his outburst. He waits until they're all in a neat pile on the table before straightening and fixing Spock with a firm look. _They'll have to be cleaned again,_ Jim thinks, distantly. "I'm not going to apologize for what I said," Bones says, and Jim's stomach sinks, but he keeps talking. "I _am_ sorry for their deaths. Damn it all, I couldn't save them. I _tried,_ mind you, but it wasn't enough. Sometimes nothing is."

Bones turns away.

Jim thinks he looks exhausted: his shoulders are curved, and he can see the line of his spine through Bones' uniform. A long, horrible silence follows before Spock gives the back of Bones' head a nod.

Jim lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. There isn't peace, not yet, not without a lot more discussion, but they can work together, and that's all Jim needs right now.

~

He finds Spock in the old quarters of the Masters. There are no bodies here, either, and he wonders how Uhura and Bones had managed to collect everyone while trying to save those that they could. He isn't sure he wants to ask, because Bones has bags under his eyes that are bigger than his own, and Uhura has her own scars both visible and not.

He finds Spock meditating. He's been here for the better part of the day. He sits with a ramrod straight spine, hands curled in loose loops on his knees. He faces the open sky, which is unmarred by the deaths of hundreds of people. It's a cool evening. T'luta naps in the corner, swaddled in Spock's traveling robes. Jim doesn't interrupt; he sits on the ground, favoring his leg, and settles in a reclining position. The silence is comfortable after the chaos of reading through all of Uhura's intelligence and otherwise catching up.

The air is heavy and warm. Spock's even breaths are the only mark of passing time.

"I assume you will wish to join your people and depart the planet," Spock says. "Lieutenant Uhura seems a capable woman. I am sure with your combined efforts, a reasonable and efficient method shall be discovered."

Jim leans back onto the palms of his hands and debates his words. He licks his lips, an old nervous tick that Chapel had scolded him for more than once.

"You don't need to stay here, Spock," he says.

Spock's head moves to the side, as if he might turn and look at him, but he doesn't. The silence shifts and thickens, and Jim's heart pounds in his chest. His blood rushes through his limbs, and he thinks he might be able to feel his lungs process oxygen. Spock doesn't say anything, though Jim desperately wishes he would. He's standing at a precipice with absolutely no guarantee of landing safely, or of even seeing land at all. He may as well jump and float into the depths of space, to be swallowed by the void, his body ever-preserved by the endless vacuum of it all.

He inhales. Exhales. His heart stutters. Jim wonders if Mirialans — or their half-human children — have hearing that could detect that sort of thing. He hopes not. 

"You could come with us," Jim says, and his throat is so dry he has to stop and clear it. Spock still doesn't look at him. "Bring T'luta, too. I know you care for her. We could take her back to her family. Figure out what happened to... everyone."

Spock turns, finally, and pierces Jim with his gaze. Warm brown eyes, Jim thinks; the exact same that he had first seen upon awakening not a week ago. They had looked distant, then, but he knows now it was because he hadn't known how to read Spock at all.

Before Spock can say no, Jim continues, pitch rising as his words tumble over each other, desperate to soothe any offense he may have given by assuming Spock could _want_ to come with him. "You don't have to, obviously, if you want to stay here and... study. Meditate. Observe the Force, or..."

He trails off. Spock is staring at him, and — no, it can't be, because Spock doesn't smile, but Jim's pretty sure that Spock is smiling at him.

"The Force is not something that can be empirically 'observed', Jim."

"Right," says Jim, and he lets his head fall back so he can stare at the domed ceiling. There's a tiled pattern in reds and golds, swirling and swirling until it meets at the bright, golden sun at the peak. "I could argue with you about that, but because I'm feeling kind, I won't."

Spock makes a sound of acknowledgement. Jim keeps staring at the ceiling. Maybe it's Jim's own avoidance of the swirling tension in his gut, or his history of making sure situations like this didn't happen — yes, he's well aware of his complexes, _thank you_ — but Jim's whole body is demanding he leave, now, or risk further hurt. He isn't even hurt. Spock's — thinking. Jim inhales and exhales, forcing the queasiness down to his toes. He's marched into explosive firefights without flinching; he's watched teammates die and been unable to bury them; he's had to make life or death decisions and live with what came after; Jim's no stranger to nerves, but this?

This middle-space of want and terror?

Jim isn't used to this at all.

"It is forbidden for a Jedi to form attachments," Spock says. His voice is flat, and Jim lowers his gaze, and Spock is staring at him. Bottomless brown eyes. The tattoos stand in relief against his green skin, swirling and intricate. "There is no passion; there is serenity."

Jim has to remember to breathe. 

"The source of the law is ancient and has been a point of contention amongst scholars; it will likely remain so for centuries to come. Master Odan-Urr established the verses we know of and use today — changing one line, _passion, yet serenity,_ to the line used in Jedi meditation: _there is no passion, there is serenity."_ Spock tilts his head a fraction. "These minor differences have nearly split the Order on more than one occasion. This is, however, merely the nature of religious organizations that are established on ancient writings in languages long since deceased."

Spock gestures at T'luta, eyes roaming over her sleeping form. Jim cannot help but follow the movement. "The Code says one must protect the weak and defenseless, yet also that one is required to put the needs of the community above the needs of individuals. A Jedi must not have wants; self-reliance must be shown."

Spock inhales, an even and measured breath that Jim can feel in his ribs, "and yet — above all, one must not form attachments. It is forbidden. A Jedi who disobeys is expelled from the Order." He turns away from T'luta, and returns his gaze to Jim.

Jim doesn't want to point out that there may not be an Order to be expelled _from._ He's damn sure Spock is aware, and doesn't need the reminder.

"Why, Spock," Jim says, because he doesn't know when to shut the fuck up, "is that your way of saying you're _attached_ to me?"

Spock quirks an eyebrow, but before he can speak, Jim continues.

"I mean — you're under no obligation to do anything or feel anything you don't want to, you know. That's what friends are. There's no 'you must' or 'you can not' with friends. We just..." he shrugs, leaning forward and glancing at his hands. What did a clone know of friends, anyway? "... we just _be."_

Silence falls again, and Spock is still staring at him, and Jim laces his hands together and resists from picking at his skin. His stomach flips.

"Jim," Spock begins, and Jim braces himself for the rejection. "I would be honoured to accompany you and your comrades on your search for justice." He shifts, minutely, to face Jim, and reaches forward. He unwinds the knot of Jim's hands with gentle sureness, and holds them. Jim looks at their hands, and then at Spock.

"No attachments," Jim says, voice hoarse. His heart pounds out an anxious rhythm in his ears.

"Of course not," Spock says, while cupping Jim's hands in his own. "Such things are unwise."

Jim exhales, shaky, and swipes a thumb across Spock's hand. Spock is smiling his not-smile, and something, somewhere, clicks into place, and settles. The universe is vast and unknown and roiling with dangers, but here—

—he feels ready, for once, to face them.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading. you can find me on my writeblr [@yarrowyells](http://yarrowyells.tumblr.com/). shoot me an ask or dm if you want to commission me!
> 
> title is from cold war's _loner phase._


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